Me, My Eczema, and I

Food is medicine. No doctors required. A quick history of symptoms

Photo by Andrius from Pexels

Scratching myself bloody has been part of my earliest memories.
I remember one unusually hot German summer day at the age of 3 (it’s crazy but I do remember this distinctly) ripping off my Pampers and pulling myself up onto the cool stone top of our living room’s coffee table, viciously digging my nails into the skin that has been insanely itchy through a combination of active eczema and a hot, moist environment. That sweet relief of answering the itch was short-lived however and instantly replaced by burning, screaming, inflamed pain. When my parents walked in they knew they had to do something about it, so I wouldn’t inflict more self-harm with the result of oozing open sores and possibly infections. They cut my fingernails short and tried to wrap my hands in cotton mittens (which on a child wouldn’t stay on for too long).

I developed eczema in the typical areas, which were the crooks of the arms and legs, hands and fingers as well as buttocks and face. The areas would change over time. In addition, I was pale as a ghost and didn’t seem to tan as other kids would with dark circles under my eyes. I remember always feeling dirty because my skin barrier was broken. What really brought me over the edge was that constant, hellish, nagging itch that was unbearable if left unscratched — imagine 20 mozzie bites in one spot. I was fantasizing about running metal rakes over my skin…

There is nothing else you could focus on, but the itch. Mentally speaking, it took a real toll on you. It’s like this never-ceasing irritant that keeps bugging you while life goes on, problems having to be dealt with, stress buffered, accompanied by this feeling of being ashamed.

One winter in 2018 I was at my lowest, thinking that I had exhausted everything at my disposal to heal my constantly flaring eczema in these long cold months. I was depressed, yet still had to show…